


99 Problems

by beetle



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M, Post-Inception
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-01
Updated: 2013-05-01
Packaged: 2017-12-10 02:27:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,514
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/780711
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beetle/pseuds/beetle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for this inception_kink prompt, "One of the boys walks in on the other and sees him dressed in nothing but boxers, socks, and sunglasses, singing along to some rap/ hip hop music, and dancing around with some sort of gangsterish swag. And the one who discovers this scene watches for a bit before interrupting with something like, "I didn't know you listened to Tupac," with a big-ass I-can't-hold-back-the-laughter-any-longer smile. Bonus points, if the one who's caught is using a remote or tube of lube for a 'mic.'"</p>
            </blockquote>





	99 Problems

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I’m neither Chris Nolan, Jay-Z, nor Biggie Smalls.  
> Notes: Set a few hours post-Inception. Warnings for explicit rap lyrics.

_“I got the rap patrol on the gat patrol.  
Foes that wanna make sure my casket's closed.  
Rap critics, they say he's "Money-Cash-Hoes."  
I'm from the hood, stupid, what type of facts are those?”_  
  
  
For several surprised moments, Eames is certain he’s broken into the wrong hotel suite.  
  
Nonetheless, he stands there listening to the music, gun drawn despite the fact that curiosity’s quite got the better of him. He makes his quick, quiet-footed way into the suite, pushing the door in, but not quite closing it, to avoid the tell-tale  _click_. Not that it would be heard over the music.  
  
The foyer portion of the suite is dark, but there’s light in the main room. Cast, it would seem, from where the bedroom should be, if Eames doesn’t miss his guess.  
  
  
 _“If you grew up with holes in ya_ zapatos _  
You'd be celebrating the minute you was havin' dough.  
I'm like fuck critics you can kiss my whole asshole.  
If you don't like my lyrics you can press fast forward.  
I got beef with radio if I don't play they show._  
  
  
Pressing his back to the wall, he eases forward and forward, till he reaches the corner. He slowly, oh-so-carefully peers ‘round it. . . .  
  
  
 _”They don't play my hits, I don't give a shit, SO!  
Rap mags try and use my black ass  
So advertisers can give 'em more cash for ads, fuckers.  
I don't know what you take me as,   
Or understand the intelligence that Jay-Z has.”_  
  
  
Caution utterly forgotten, Eames rounds the corner, gun hanging by his side as he goggles at the image before him:  
  
Dressed in nothing but silk boxers, argyle socks, oversized, but expensive-looking sunglasses, and—a bloody  _baseball cap_  turned backwards—is none other than Pointman Extraordinaire, Arthur Stern.  
  
Bouncing up and down, and generally bopping around on the king-sized hotel bed to a base-heavy beat, the source of which is a sleek laptop and small, portable speakers, is Pointman Extraordinaire, Arthur Stern.  
  
Waving his arms around and pumping his hips back and forth in a most undignified—and off-rhythm—manner, whilst using what appears to be a tube of toothpaste, or—  
  
 _Bloody hell, is that_ lube?  
  
—some other tube-able gel as his microphone, is Pointman Extraordinaire, Arthur Stern.  
  
Still facing the headboard as he shakes his small, but rather shapely arse, said Pointman has yet to twig to the fact that he’s got an audience.  
  
  
 _”I'm from rags to riches, niggas, I ain't dumb.  
I got 99 problems but a bitch ain't one!  
Hit me!”_  
  
  
 _So, right room,_  Eames thinks wonderingly, grinning as he unconsciously steps closer, holstering his gun.  _But wrong reality._  
  
Arthur’s really giving the mattress springs hell as he bounces up and down like an unruly, off-beat child. Eames is actually quite surprised that such a delightfully slim body can so effortlessly bring this much force to bear. Although, he, himself, has some experience with Arthur’s body and the force it can bring to bear. . . .  
  
  
 _”I got 99 problems but a bitch ain't one!  
Hit me!”_  
  
  
Between Arthur’s fake-deep voice, phony ‘hood’ accent, and the way he’s swinging his arms and flashing what can only be some sort of gang signs at the headboard, Eames finds that he can’t hold back his laughter—chuckles, really—anymore. Oh, he covers his mouth for a moment, biting his tongue, but that doesn’t help. His greeting comes out on the back of deep, smug chuckles:  
  
“I prefer Biggie, myself, but to each his own.”  
  
Arthur, in the middle of another bed-shaking bounce, yelps, and comes down near the edge of the bed. He slips on the—apparently—slippery duvet and bounces once on the bed, onto the floor—thankfully arse-first. The glasses, cap, and lube go flying and Arthur, goggle-eyed with bestartlement pulls a gun from somewhere—God only knows where—and draws a bead on Eames’s chest in less than a second.  
  
Arthur’s the most accurate marksman Eames has ever met, and has a heavy trigger-finger, to boot. These things, combined with the fact that it’s  _never, ever_  a good idea to startle Arthur for _any_  reason, should sober Eames up sharpish.  
  
But the chuckles turn into giggles, turn into chortles, and Eames bends over, bracing his hands on his knees. He chortles until he starts to wheeze and Arthur, a mottled, embarrassed red, picks himself up off the floor. His boxers are askew, and . . . his cock is coming out the bloody front of them!  
  
“Oh, dear,  _God_ ,” Eames sputters, staring at the aforementioned cock. Arthur follows his gaze and yelps again, adjusting himself and his shorts. But it’s too late. Eames has already seen the icing on a most unexpected and sinfully delicious cake. “Oh, my darling, you are  _priceless_!”  
  
“What the  _fuck_  are you doing here?” Arthur demands over the music, rubbing his arse and wincing. He hobbles over to the writing desk and his laptop and either mutes or turns the music off.  
  
Wiping a tear away from his eye, Eames straightens up and takes a deep breath . . . that turns into giggles again. “I think the more p-pertinent question is: What the fuck are  _you doing_ , here?”  
  
“Not that it’s any of your business, but it’s called  _unwinding_ , Eames. We all do it in different ways, and not all of us prefer to lose scads of money at the nearest casino.” Arthur sniffs disapprovingly.  
  
Eames leans on the lintel and grins. “But at least I don’t look an utter twat when  _I_  unwind.”  
  
For a moment, Arthur’s face takes on a murderously blank expression . . . then it relaxes into something more weary than it is angry, and Eames notices for the first time the faint circles under Arthur’s eyes, and the hollows of his cheeks.  
  
His laughter tapers off rather quickly after that, and he clears his throat.  
  
“You look dreadfully tired, darling.”  
  
Arthur snorts, and lays his gun down next to the laptop. He pinches the bridge of his nose and walks to the bed, sitting heavily. “You’re not exactly Dex Sexington, yourself, Eames.”  
  
“Rubbish, I’m  _always_  Dex Sexington.”  
  
Almost smiling, Arthur stops pinching the bridge of his nose and runs his hand over his mussed up hair. “Well. Now that you’ve participated in the world’s first successful Inception  _and_ uncovered my deep, dark, secret fondness for rap music, what’ll you do with the rest of your life?”  
  
Eames shrugs. “Oh, I don’t know. My life’s sort of complete, now, isn’t it? I suppose I’ll just retire to Malta, or something,” he muses wistfully. Arthur snorts again.  
  
“Before you do, tell me why you broke into my room—and how you even knew where I was staying.”  
  
“I have my ways, don’t I?”  
  
Arthur rolls his eyes. “Indeed, you do, Mr. Eames. But that still doesn’t explain why your ways brought you  _here_.”  
  
Eames smiles a little, and briefly studies his shoes; they’re alligator, and perfectly shined. “Perhaps you aren’t the only one who needs to unwind.”  
  
“Mm. Well, the nearest casino is—“  
  
“That’s, er, not what I meant by unwind, darling.” Eames gazes steadily into Arthur's eyes, letting his own speak for him. Arthur actually  _blushes_.  
  
“Oh,” he says quietly. Then sighs. “I thought we agreed that we would never talk about or attempt what happened in Cairo again.”  
  
“No,  _you_  suggested we shouldn’t, then wouldn’t let me disagree with you. You bloody well walked out before I could say anything about it.” Eames pouts, to cover the very real facet of himself that’s still stung by Arthur’s dismissal. “Terribly rude of you, darling.”  
  
His cheeks still stained red, Arthur stands up and walks to what Eames can only presume is the bathroom. When he comes out a minute later, he’s belting his robe decisively and the socks are gone. He won’t meet Eames’s eyes. “Once was a bad idea, Eames. Twice would be . . .  _oy-vey_ , the only phrase that comes immediately to mind is ‘fucking retarded.’”  
  
“How wonderfully P.C. of you, Arthur, dear.” Eames watches as Arthur pads past him into the main room. “And if you’re going to mix yourself a drink, I won't say no to some of that complimentary Bombay gin on the bar.”  
  
“I'm not. But you don’t miss a trick, do you, Mr. Eames?” Arthur’s voice comes from near the door to the room. There’s a double click as Arthur closes and locks it. Heat begins to pool at the pit of Eames’s stomach, and he turns around, smirking as Arthur walks back into the main room.  
  
“Usually, no. But I did miss a trick, once. To my ever-lasting regret.”  
  
Smiling a tiny, wry smile, Arthur meets his eyes at last. One hand is on his hip and the other hooked onto the belt of the robe. “God, you’re so transparent.”  
  
“No,  _this_  is transparent: ‘I would like very much to fuck you, Arthur Stern,” Eames says softly, drifting closer. Arthur’s smile widens just a bit.  
  
“That’s not transparent, Mr. Eames, that’s  _blatant_.”  
  
“Oh, you and your specificity.” Eames stops when he and Arthur are separated by nothing more substantial than a foot of air. He hooks his own fingers in the belt of the robe and, when Arthur’s only response is to raise one elegant eyebrow, pulls Arthur closer by it, till there’s no more than a hair’s breadth of air between them. Which, in Eames’s estimation, is a hair’s breadth too much.  
  
Perhaps it’s too much for Arthur as well, seeing as his breathing has changed—has sped up, as has the pulse at the hollow of his throat.  
  
“You wanton, little slut . . . your pupils are dilated,” Eames notes softly, sliding his hands from Arthur’s belt, around to his amazing arse. The throb of pulse and whoosh of breath come a bit faster. “That means you like what you see.”  
  
“My pupils dilate when I see a Mossberg Maverick 88, a Dunhill suit, or a Payday candy bar.” Arthur snorts again. “Don’t let it go to your head.”  
  
“Too late for that,” Eames pulls Arthur forward so their bodies are flush against each other. He’s hard, and Arthur is getting there. “Now, wherever did that lube get to?”  
  
“Under the bed somewhere, I imagine,” Arthur breathes, pulling out of Eames’s arms. He unbelts the robe, shrugs once, and it falls to the floor, puddling around his feet. He’s no longer wearing the silk boxer shorts, and Eames sighs, a soft  _ah_  escaping his lips. He drops to his knees with a soft grunt, grasps Arthur’s narrow hips and pulls him close once more.  
  
Without taking a moment for contemplation—he’s already done so once . . . dear Lord, can it already be two years since Cairo?—his lips close around the tip of Arthur’s half-hard cock. Arthur hisses, and runs his hand through Eames’s hair.  
  
“God, I want your mouth,” he murmurs, and Eames can feel that intense, dilated gaze on the top of his head, hot and bright like sunshine. Like fire.  
  
He pulls Arthur closer and closer, letting Arthur’s cock slide past his lips, into his mouth, and to the back of his throat, all salt and musk. He doesn’t stop till his face is buried in crispy, wiry curls and repressing his gag-reflex is becoming just the teensiest bit problematic.  
  
Fingers scritch and scratch their way through Eames’s hair, to the nape of his neck, where they stroke encouragingly as Arthur slowly, gently, pumps his hips again—and this time, there’s nothing funny about it—no flaw in his steady rhythm.  
  
Jamming his hand down his own trousers, Eames tugs himself out and moans, causing Arthur to do the same.  
  
“Perfect, baby, just . . .  _so perfect_ ,” Arthur sighs, his hips picking up their pace. [Eames hums](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wk4ftn4PArg)lowly, swallowing around Arthur’s cock.  
  
“Fuck . . . fuck, is that  _Hypnotize_?” Arthur gasps, half-laughing. Eames  _hmms_  his assent. “Fuck . . . I’m about to come straight down your throat, Mr. Eames. Straight.  _Down_.”  
  
Which has the effect of making Eames nearly come, himself.  
  
More than impatient for the main show, Eames begins intensifying the suction around Arthur’s cock, and using his other hand to push Arthur’s legs apart.  
  
Object attained, Eames strokes behind Arthur’s balls and up between his cheeks. He circles Arthur’s hole with two fingers, pressing lightly against it.  
  
“Oh,  _Jesus_!” Arthur’s hips jerk forward and his hand clenches on the back of Eames’s neck, alternately squeezing and massaging. “Please?” he keeps saying. “Please?”  
  
Breathing carefully through his nose, caught up in the salt-musk scent and taste, Eames keeps swallowing, taking Arthur as deep as he can, which—Eames being Eames—is fairly deep. But thankfully, for the sake of Eames’s throat and jaw, Arthur stills before Eames is halfway through _Hypnotize_ , his hips jerking one last time, hard enough that Eames  _does_  gag . . . then keeps swallowing.  
  
“Yeah-yeah-yeah,” Arthur is chanting as he comes straight.  _Down_. Eames’s throat in hot, thick pulses. It’s more than he can swallow, though he does manage to keep down half—the rest paints his lips and chin and shirt.  
  
With a grunt and a sigh, Arthur’s barely done before he’s on his knees, too, kissing Eames teasingly, then deeply, licking at his mouth and chin. His warm, long hands cup Eames’s face gently, thumbs stroking at his cheekbones. Between the ache in his jaw and the numbness of his lips, it’s all Eames can do to keep up, and when he groans, Arthur laughs, breaking their kisses with a final lingering one.  
  
“Get naked, baby,” he murmurs, and Eames opens his eyes to see Arthur staring, with particular determination, back into the bedroom. “Get naked, and I’ll find the lube. Then I’m gonna ride your dick straight on till morning.”  
  
That more sounds like a plan Eames can get on board with. So he lets Arthur help him to his feet. One more quick kiss, then Arthur’s striding into the bedroom, leaving Eames to take care of the clothing-problem on his own.  
  
The shirt, jacket, and gun are the easiest to divest himself of, the trousers less so, considering all the friction they cause. Eames can only thank God he isn’t wearing pants underneath.  
  
Suddenly, the music starts up again. Not  _99 Problems_ , this time, but  _Hypnotize_. Smiling, Eames turns his attention to the bedroom to see Arthur kneeling on the bed, a maniacal grin on his face, dimples flashed like a royal flush. In one hand is the lube. In the other is his cock, which is still flushed, hard, and getting harder.  
  
 _He’s such a power-bottom. It’s just like Cairo, all over again,_  Eames thinks ironically, fondly. _Well, except for the musical selection._  
  
Arthur lets go of his cock when he sees he has Eames’s undivided attention then crooks his finger in a come-hither gesture that Eames couldn’t disobey even if he tried.  
  
“*C’mon, Big Poppa,” Arthur says, smirking now and licking his lips. “**Gimme the Loot.”  
  
 _I’m about to fuck Arthur “Grandmaster Flash” Stern whilst listening to gangsta rap . . . bloody hell, I think I’m falling in love,_  Eames thinks giddily. Then he’s rushing the bed and tackling Arthur, who  _oof_ s, and laughs, and holds Eames tight-tight-tight while Biggie plays.  
  



End file.
